Ever the Sinner
by second heaven
Summary: Two weeks before Spot Conlon names a successor, the murder of a Brooklyn newsie births a trail of heinous crimes that begin to divide the borough. [Dewey's Latest Story!]
1. Chapter One

DISLCAIMER: I don't own Spot Conlon, or any of the other blessed newsboys herein mentioned. But I do stake claim to the wonderful Runner Conlon, who has seen me through many a story. Oh, and the Brooklyn Daily Eagle belongs to the people who ran it from 1841-1902. nods

**Author's Note: **So, here's _another _story from the maniacal musings of the Dew, the same lyrical lass who brought you _Eternal Avenger_ and _Hearts Awakened_. But here's a tale of a different sort, with a different heart, and a different morale. A single story in which I hope to revamp my 30 other stories that are in dire need of revision (each chapter concerns a theme my other stories conveyed). One request from this dame is all I bring. Do offer me constructive criticism if you're so inclined: challenge me, prod my mind, shed light on possibilities. They say a mind expanded to new limits never returns to its original dimensions. smiles That's quite the oasis for me…and now without further ado…

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_**Ever the Sinner **_

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**The Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Vol. 61. No. 17. Three Cents **

**Monday, January 21, 1901**

_Queen Victoria Barely Alive_

_Two Night Sticks Broken Over A Prisoner's Head_

_Congress Will Be Asked to End West Point Hazing_

_Carriage House Wrecked by Boiler Explosion _

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Amidst the gentle resonating din arising from the God-forsaken city of Brooklyn, through the unrelenting downpour of a feather-light yet all the same frigid rain, upon the forbidding, bleak, and austere edifice wherein dwelled the newsboys of Brooklyn sat a lone figure, grave and immobile. Like a century-old sentinel of stone riveted to the structure's dilapidated roof, the seeming specter and bearer of grim propositions appeared spellbound. Bright eyes usually rich with tomfoolery were bled dry of life, a strident nature in its place whetted until it had exceeded sheer apathy. These same irises scanned the docks alongside the East River without fail, noting the seagulls upon an occasional pier, the fireflies streaking across the midnight backdrop of sky like artists plotting prematurely the tails of forthcoming comets, and the steady hum of fish boat bells clanging as if with a deep yearning to return to the ocean.

Likewise, he who lurked in the shadows of the night entertained a similar yearning, though his was the desire to return elsewhere, to a time when he'd known purity untouched. But no sooner had he fostered the musings, they dissipated like morning dew turned to mist by works of the rising sun. He couldn't afford to mull over trifles this night, nor could he afford to bewail a time long gone and not so easily retrievable. Such were the cycles of life: one lived, one laughed, one lamented. Time wasn't man's to alter, nor would it ever be, but to live a life of regret was to not live at all. What good was it to pray unceasingly for a second chance when all about could be found new opportunities, new paths down which one might meander to become something of a different breed? Glory wasn't objective; it was up to the _individual _to determine how he'd elevate himself to staggering heights, how he'd make his own namesake a legacy.

For the first time in what had seemed an eternity, he abandoned his crouching position and allowed a single knee to be at ease, gripping the ledge of the roof with a steady hand as the one he sought at last came into view. Snack Dowery. Brooklyn's resident glutton, a corpulent landmass of greed and flea-infested filth currently feasting to his heart's content upon a salted pretzel and swaggering onward almost drunkenly while a nightmare-inducing prospect was about to befall him, with no witnesses to hear his scream. The raven-black apparition stalked cat-like across the roof, padding athwart the construction soundlessly, eyes never leaving its prey.

"Forgive me, Father, for I shall sin." The seven words escaped his lips in a heaven-aimed entreaty rich with a feverish repentant disposition, yet this too faded once the figure cloaked himself once more with that listless facade and with that, he drew forth a dagger, silver blade glistening in the moonshine ominously, and leapt from his perch.

The kill was swift and flawless. Snack, of course, hadn't suspected a thing. The blade pierced the fat of his side cleanly, plunging deep until its handle prohibited it from further butchery. When drawn from the flesh of its victim, a haunting pattern of crimson streaks blemished its beauty, but no more precious as the sight of the Brooklyn newsboy clutching the wound between suffocating coughs and staggering a short distance before ultimately collapsing to his unfortunate demise. With but a few breaths, he turned onto his back and tried to glimpse he who had robbed him of life. The figure was thin and of tall height; the outline of his frame virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness. But the wraith with a nefarious smirk bid his victim a single dose of clemency, and lighting a match, brought the tiny orange flame to his face, allowing Snack to espy the one responsible for this murderous frenzy.

Snack Dowery choked on his own blood-based mucus at the unveiling. But before he could speak the name of the criminal, his strength gave out and left him unconscious, his eyes never to open again.

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	2. Chapter Two

DISCLAIMER: I only own Runner Conlon.

**Author's Note: **Hey, thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter of this story over a year ago! I actually already had this second chapter written, but I never got around to uploading it for some reason. Anyway, I want to get back into the habit of writing, and figured I'd continue with this particular story. For those of you who are returning, I'd encourage you to re-read the first chapter, since it isn't too long. Once again, constructive criticism is more than welcome! I'd love to know what works and doesn't work! Thanks for reading!

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_**Ever the Sinner**_

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**The Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Vol. 61. No. 17. Three Cents **

**Friday, January 25, 1901**

_Local Tunnel Route Is Finally Adopted_

_Gasoline Steamer Wrecked_

_Miss Tillie Jacobs Wanted By The Coroner_

_Boys' Suits-New Price Records_

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The latter fraction of the week found Spot Conlon lounging on the lower mattress of his private room's bunk bed, block of wood in one hand while the other deftly held a switchblade which, with careful precision, carved the hickory effortlessly with a simple flick of the boy's wrist. The physical manifestation of a state-wide notorious legacy seemed, this particular day, careless – virtually free spirited. A lock of sandy blonde hair fallen over his eyes, he could've perchance passed for fourteen, though he was five years past such an adolescence. With back reclined against the headboard of his resting area and one leg comfortably resting across the other, he brought the wood to his lips, narrowing his enigmatic sapphire irises to examine the structure's smooth cut, and apparently satisfied he nodded curtly in approval of his craftsmanship and blew the wood shavings off the block before proceeding with the task.

Such was the silence in his lodging house he could actually track his thoughts for once as he timed them with the rhythmic pare of the blade. It was the third slingshot within a mere month he was carving for his younger cousin, who evidently had a proclivity to misplace his very weapons – though Spot was quite sure the boy considered such a prized possession more of a child's play thing. Shaking his head, the Brooklyn leader straightened himself against the headboard and paused once more from his assembly to survey its sound construction before continuing onward; there were matters far more pressing at hand and these tedious debacles he daily entertained with his cousin did much to add heaviness to his already over accumulated stress.

One of his newsies, Snack Dowery, had been slain on his very territory just days ago! It had driven Spot absolutely livid, such that upon learning of the crime he had maintained so enraged a temperament any passerby would've thought him capable of avenging the bereavement through a mass genocide. His temper was irascible enough without anyone provoking it, and this was more than one might bargain to drive the young man over the edge of control.

The current thoughts caused his pressure on the switchblade to increase drastically and by mishap, a larger chunk of the wood was cut in a single slice than what he had intended. "Damn it!" He flung the would be slingshot across the room, aiming for and missing a crate set aside for trash, and plunged the small knife into the mattress upon which he lay, wishing it were the carcass of the confounded murderer who'd dared bothered with a Brooky. "Damn it all to hell!" And with that, he crossed his arms and did what he did best: glared and hated on life.

From across the room, Runner Conlon turned around at the sound of his elder cousin's rant and allowed a roguish smirk to play across his lips. He'd spent the past thirty minutes sifting through his silken golden locks with ink-smeared fingers, beholding his reflection in Spot's tall looking glass with the zealous infatuation of a brat prince; of course those who knew the cousins well would unmistakably reserve _that _role for Spot, and the ever-failing short-comer was Runner's for the taking, for his achievements were always dimmed in the shadows of the Brooklyn leader's lofty bequest.

"Givin' up so early, Aiden?" Runner sauntered to the discarded block of wood, collected it in his hands –careful not to win himself a splinter, and closed the distance between himself and his relative, taking a seat on the foot of Spot's bed. He tossed the hickory object from one palm to the next as if it were the most amusing of games, his face like that of child's when enjoying the acquisitions of a holiday gift-giving fest.

Spot watched him for a moment stoically. The two were so alike and yet so different all the same. The elder Conlon had aged eons within a brief span of adolescence; the younger still portrayed a juvenile foolish miscreant more often than not. Spot had more responsibility than a handful of middle-aged men could brag about; the weight of a dynasty unloaded onto his shoulders and he'd be damned if he didn't account for every last boy selling papers in his borough. Runner didn't know what it meant to be conscientious of others; he'd barely the capability to watch after his own back, let alone those of over fifty other newsboys. He was much too playful when leaders were supposed to be staid, much too prodigal when he should've been attentive, and much too defiant when Spot would've rather he show respect.

One of their only similarities was simply a matter of appearance; the two bore a stunning resemblance. They were often confused as fraternal twin siblings, the elder with arresting blue eyes and his protégé the bearer of emerald green orbs, always sparkling like bubbling apple cider ready to wreak mischief. Though nearly the same height, nearly the same built, and with nearly the same dialect, Spot beat out his cousin in every category. In the end, there could only be one king of Brooklyn, and remembering this, he smirked back.

"I'm tired of always cleanin' up after your messes, _Lucas_. Make your own slingshot for God's sake. This aint no assembly line, and I aint your _daddy_." His words cut deep, and he knew it. The knowledge of such allowed an even lengthier and serpentine grin to cross his face. So was the way with them; should an altercation arise there was no use moseying coyly at the surface: they plunged deep into the core and awoke the memories that pained each other.

Runner chose to ignore the remark about his father. "Aw come on. You never taught me how to carve wood! How'm I suppose to make my own slingshot, huh? 'Sides, I like your handiwork better. Any weapon made by 'the great Spot Conlon' is sure to never…"

"Would you stop with the bull crap already? You're horrible at kissin' up to people, you know that?"

"Well, I didn't necessarily learn from the best, now did I?" Runner winked at the elder and then braced himself for the hit he knew might come, but when he reopened his eyes, he was thankful upon glimpsing Spot simply shake his head and laugh. He sighed softly and relaxed. "Enough of this chit chat, we should get goin' lest you intend on headin' back late later tonight." Before the last few words of the statement were uttered, he was already on his feet, strutting to the door with apparent eagerness.

Spot quirked an eyebrow at this and sat up straighter, leaning forward a bit as if he expected to garner a long held secret from the boy. "Get goin' where exactly?"

"To Coney Island, of course! Remember you said you'd take me there tonight? You said that." He nodded, as if doing so would affirm the authenticity of the claim, and when his hopes seemed to dwindle, he took a few steps forward –eyes a bit wide with restrained sadness. "Remember? It was because…"

"I remember, Lucas. Christ, I remember, alright?" He combed his fingers halfway through his tresses and rested his forehead into his palm, thinking. The deliberation didn't take too long; sadly enough, it never did. "Look, Runner, I got some plans with a doll from Manhattan tonight. Real sweet face, you know? Met 'er through Jack…a dame like none other…" he looked up, smirking "…and a lay I'm sure'll be even better. We can always schedule the Coney Island crap for another day, alright?" He, too, arose and headed to his personal washroom to ready himself for the date of which he spoke.

Runner watched him, annoyed and bristled, forlorn and offended. Yet he said nothing in debate. With a slight nod, he only voiced his understanding and leaned against the frame of the door as Spot went on about how lucky he'd get that night, oblivious to the broken heart his younger cousin harbored.

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